


The Changing Moon

by orphan_account



Category: Berserk
Genre: M/M, Purple Prose, over 1000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-01
Updated: 2000-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loyalty vs. affection vs. honour, with gay sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Changing Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gosh, this was written ages ago. AGES. The prose is very purple, too, but that's in the spirit of the original, isn't it?
> 
> The date is not even a good guess. I don't remember when this was written, I just know it's quite old.

_Everything is different now. I didn't realize it would be. This strange environment wrapped in satin, gold and bright colours is alien to me. The red of blood changed to the rich royal purple of the palace. That's his world now._

It was a clear night, the familiar blanket of stars looking so dark and distant from castle roof. The torches in the yard were flaring and the light still shone from many windows, competing with the faint light from countless suns.

This was not his place.

That other world Griffith had left so easily behind wasn't simply Gattsu's own environment, it was his soul. Places are etched upon a person, in his looks and heart, when they are the only reality they know. The soul of the tanned tall warrior, in his house of hardened flesh and dark blinds of mind, was the soul of the battlefield.

He desired like a warrior, the adrenalin in his veins blocking out all distractions, the goal becoming the whole of his world. Even in desire, the need to survive won over sense and fear both, birthing a strange cool effectiveness that never doubted its victory.

That's why he always won.

That's why desire was easy.

Except when he decided not to kill... or take. Then desire became like thorns under his burrs, nagging at him. Conflict he didn't understand was conflict of desire itself.

He remembered Griffith's smile, distant and untouchable, exactly the same smile that he put on when he was not telling everything, and remembered how it had been turned to the nobles. Did they not see? The honoured, beautiful knight in silk and satin, hair demurely drawn back as fine as any court dandy's, smiling a smile that spoke of hidden traps. Weren't they supposed to be the ones who were used to lies, while soldiers were supposed to be straight-forward and easy to read? Gattsu snorted slightly.

Or was that only detectable to the people who knew him?

_His way is so different from mine.  
_  
When emotions created unfamiliar motion within Gattsu's world, his subconscious at first blocked it in violent reaction to a perception not made by the self. The self then wondered, not understanding the emotion, not understanding the reaction. Sometimes, he would wonder until the subconscious decided to act, and then yield to the its decision. Sometimes, he would think, really think, of what was happening and slowly, slowly, slowly come to the realization of the motion in all it's simplicity.

The cold blue moonlight reflected off of Gattsu's sword as he admired it's familiar shape extended before him. His comfort, the memory of battlefield, almost like another self, a shape he'd carried with him since childhood. All he was, condensed. A sword.

He couldn't deny it any longer. He'd known it for a long time. But now, with the growing awareness of the change in Griffith - or, more correctly, the revelation that Griffith wasn't just Griffith of the battlefield, not even primarily - his mind caught up with it, pinned it down, displayed it in front of his consciousness: the naked, simple fact.

He was somebody else's sword now.

***

The sun coloured the horizon of another sky pale-blue, its rays only beginning to reach above the jagged mountains. The water tingled like ice-flakes against Gattsu's hands as he dipped them into the river and lashed tiny whips against his face. Soon no muzziness remained from the sleep he'd woken from only minutes ago.

He was sixteen years old.

The sword, his own length, lay in the grass next to him. Up on the hill, on the end of the little pathway he had just descended, a little grove of tents was set up to house the mercenary group, his pay-comrades since yesterday - the Hawks.

He had fought and lost. Simple as that. Unbelievable, outrageous, but very simple. He had bet his freedom; now he had to live with the loss.

And all to that skinny pale man.

So fast - so skilled. But Gattsu hadn't thought he was too good to be taken down...

What was that essence that Griffith carried? That elegance he used to subdue his opponent? What honour drove him, what creed - what rules did he follow, that man who used his sword so deftly as to seem like he was... lying with it?

That was it; his fighting was like subterfuge. That was what had driven Gattsu so mad with anger before. He sat back cross-legged on the river shore and mused. Feints were part of swordplay, he understood that, he'd had the trick used against him often enough, and himself used a crude version of it when he remembered to, but this man had made feinting an art form. He wasn't just lying with his sword, either. His whole appearance - that fine skin, that soft long hair - were deceptive signals.

He'd seen the man reflected in the eyes of his followers and seen a hero. He'd seen a memory of him in the eyes of the woman warrior, their dark light illuminating someone carnal and spiritual and god-like. He himself saw a liar.

What did Griffith see when he looked at himself?

"Good morning," came a smooth voice behind him. He was turned around and half-way up on his feet with the sword ready to strike before he recognized the pale blue slanted eyes gazing at him, amused.

He lowered his sword and cursed himself silently. "Why didn't I sense you?"

Griffith pushed off the tree he'd been leaning on, apparently since before Gattsu had arrived, sheltered from sight from up on the hill. The leaves threw shifting shadows on his face in the early soft glow of dawn. He took a step forward and the shifting shadows mystified his features, the changing light coloured him red and gold, and the blue of shadow. He looked inhuman.

"You were still sleepy, I would guess," he replied. "And I kept quiet."

"Out to find if I was going to run or not?" Gattsu said gruffly, setting the sword back on the ground and returning to his previous seated position, his back to his leader in both disrespect and trust.

"Can you blame me?"

Gattsu pulled his shirt off and began throwing the water over his chest and back. "I gave you my word. It means something to me. I think you can understand that." And he did think so. He had no doubt in his mind that if he had won the fight, he would have been free to go, as promised. He was absolutely certain of that. He supposed, then, that the word he had been given had meant something, although that was strangely out of character with the confusing play of masks he'd perceived in the soft-spoken mercenary leader.

***

Griffith licked his suddenly dry lips. His reaction to this newest addition to his group of followers continued to confuse him. He hadn't thought he was the type to feel any special erotic desire, and yet the sight of the magnificent young man stripping in front of him brought thoughts into his head that disgusted him. He pushed the awareness of the muscled stretch of back before him to the back of his brain and focused on the conversation.

"Yes, I can understand that," he replied automatically. He could, just not in the way that had been intended. He could break a promise if it was the most sensible thing to do - even if it usually wasn't; it was much better to make only the kinds of promises one would want to keep - but he understood that, for some crazy reason, Gattsu could not. Yet he had reason enough, here, to betray his word, to make Griffith worry...

He knew the question was based on their previous agreement. And he would have let Gattsu go, if he'd won the fight. There would have been no question about it. One does not try to rule over those who are stronger than he is; that would only lead to a successful revolt. Besides, had Gattsu been his worth... he would have been too worthy to be a follower.

Stranger still. To feel this embarrassing desire... for a mere follower.

No, not just that. A potential equal. Having Gattsu by his side would make him stronger.

If he could be assured of his loyalty.

***

Griffith moved in behind him. Gattsu's muscles tensed, but the position the slight young man was taking did not seem offensive. Griffith slid down into the grass behind him, and a pair of warm, wiry arms wrapped around his chest from behind. The tickle of soft hair fell across his shoulder, and the warmth of breath passed on his neck. "I need to be sure," Griffith said softly, almost apologetically.

"It's true." The reply was half-way into being a grunt. "What more can I say?"

"Don't say anything more." A white hand slid across his chest, slowly, tracing lightly the curves of muscles. "Show me."

Gattsu's teeth ground together. He wasn't naive about what was intended - he had spent his childhood in an all-male mercenary camp, after all.

Beyond all that, it made sense to him. It would be the ultimate submission. He hated the idea as much as he hated being under someone else's control. But what could he do? He had given his word. And breaking it would break his honour, which was far worse than submission to a superior, if wildly different, fighter. He'd lost. That was the way of it.

He closed his eyes, a small sigh escaping him, the breath carrying away his resistance. Griffith's hand stopped for a moment of hesitation just above the waistband, then moved determinedly down to unfasten the belt.

***

Griffith's heart jumped when Gattsu tensed, and continued racing as he forced his hand down to slide further down. He closed his eyes as well. He'd done this before. He just needed to focus.  
_  
Why do I prostitute someone I admire?_

He slid his hand under the waistband of Gattsu's trousers and found his member. He wrapped his palm around the warm length and stroked it with his thumb. Gattsu's shoulders heaved, tensing and relaxing and tensing again. Griffith leaned on the other man's back and tightened the grip of his arm around his chest.

_Am I doing this because of my lust? Yet - this is the best way of being sure. Or the worst, and yet the most assured._

He stroked again, with his full hand now, applying more pressure. The effort was not in vain. The tanned warrior shivered and sighed. Such instant, unguarded reactions - instinct unbound. Intrigued, Griffith leaned his head to nibble slightly at a juncture in Gattsu's neck that used to be sensitive on... someone else, as he moved to briefly fondle testicles, brushing his little finger hard against that area just underneath. The gasp and the buck that rewarded him had his own heat rise in response.

The aura that this man emanated, full of raw power - uncultured and uncontrolled most of the time, with no finesse, but with the straight-forwardness of a sword slicing through... It drew Griffith to Gattsu like iron to a magnet. Even as he felt himself being dazzled, some part of his mind still tried to analyze this - do I want to be a victim? do I want to use his power, or have it used on me? is it the animal that I have rejected in myself, that I so desire in him? Drawing in Gattsu's warrior scent of metal and body-stink, he allowed the thoughts to recede for now, closing his mouth over olive skin, hungry for more of those sounds and reactions.  
_  
Did I just ruin any chances of having him agree to this by free will? Of having his trust as well as his loyalty?_

Unable to help his own reactions, he bucked against the body squirming in his arms. Gritting his teeth against the clouds of unwanted passion swirling in his head, he wrenched his mouth from Gattsu's skin and quickened his hand's movements. _Better get this over with before..._

_Before I reveal myself._

He was so delicious. And Griffith was so very hungry.

But he held back.

***

It was nothing like battle, yet a little bit like drunkenness, and every bit like the haze of victory. Gattsu had started by trying to push his mind, his awareness of the situation and its embarrassing nature, to the background, but the attempt had since become redundant. All that remained was the sensation.

It really was nothing like doing this by himself. Not just the friction, or any erotic daydreams. The reality was another body tight next to his, the scent of another person, the knowledge of his presence. Fear, in a sense, and abandon.

And it was Griffith. For his first time.

Griffith. A beauty... Images mixed in his head, enemy, leader, oppressor, admirable man, desirable creature...

It was difficult to let go, impossible to hold on. Knowing he had to, he finally allowed himself over the edge. His back arched and he shoved his hips forward helplessly as the seed rushed from him, sweet and hot and snake-like, a sizzle of pleasure.

As he slumped back into himself, the shudders of body-joy slowly receding, the shame overtook him.

He gritted his teeth against it. This was how it had to go. Shame was the prize of honour. He sighed as he leaned forward, pushing irritably at the sticky-fingered hand laid uncertainly across his stomach. He got up a little stiffly, picked up his shirt and put it on, not turning to look at his violator.

"So," he intoned gruffly, "that show you?"

"Yes," came the quiet answer. Gattsu stole a peek at his new leader, sitting still on the dew-wet grass. Griffith's face was unreadable. "That will do."

Gattsu picked up his ever-present sword, swung it over his shoulder, and walked up the hill. When he glanced back, Griffith hadn't moved.

***

As Griffith sat quietly by the river, waiting for his erection to recede, he thought about his life. His eyes were dry.

_I am a sacrifice. To my dream._

That is why I cannot fail. Even if I lose everything, if I lose my self, I will not fail.

Unwittingly, his hand searched out the talisman hung around his neck and clutched it. The orb shivered silently in his hand.

***

_I murdered for him_

now I belong to him.

And he knew it would be different. He told me. It is all the difference in the world.

He taught me that difference... by pushing me over the side.

I belong to him.

***

His lips were soft and pliant, like a moist feather. Gattsu could feel the adrenalin rush knife-sharp through his body. It took courage to sacrifice yourself.

He could hear the small sigh, feel the breath against his lips, and then Griffith's arms hooked up behind his back, and he was drawn in deeper into the embrace.

The sweet-smelling warrior pulled back for a moment, hesitantly, reluctantly. His voice was soft, deep and warm, inviting, husky with desire. "This is not required of you."

Gatsu's heart thumped loud in his ears. "I know."

***

Rhythm. Breath. Hiss.

A mind disappearing, a burst of fear, like death, little death, not a nightmare, no, heaven wrapped in hell.

The shoulder's soft flesh under his mouth. He bit hard, and tasted blood. A gasp, and a jerk. Then a vanishingly small pain registered. Something liquid and hot. Nails dug in.

There was a deeper pain that such things were lost into.

***

_The water is cold. The cold is good. Like a hundred little needles pricking my filthy body._

Oh, god.

***

Griffith cried out in his sleep. Gattsu woke with a start, silk covers slipping off him as, alarmed, he reached for his bedmate in the dark. The hard thin body jerked slightly under his hand. The big man's mouth fell open but he couldn't decide whether to cry out or whisper. Guards... rumours...

The clouds parted from the moon, almost reluctantly, and a silver river of light flowed into the room. He saw the darkness of his own hand against a white shoulder, then Griffith's face. The lines of distress faded out as the moonlight touched them. He lay still.

Just a dream.

Gattsu sighed himself back down on the bed. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, not wanting to disturb the tentative peace. Any chance of sleep for him, though, was now gone.

He watched the white wraith on the bed beside him, confusion overlaying a sad restlessness.

***

Gattsu shivered as sunlight fluttered over his face, then winced as it reached his eyes. Sunlight... must hurry...

Don't want them to see. Don't want them to know. Oh, they know.

The sunlight made him feel dirty.

He could still smell Griffith in the room, although the man himself was gone. Gone! Left him sleeping alone in this bed... _his_ bed...

He wanted the moonlight back. He wanted the dark and the words whispered by lips you couldn't see, only feel, taste, hear. He rolled on his side and pulled the cover over himself. They know. How soon will they know every position, every touch, every stammered endearment that passed between them in the night? How soon will they know

***

_that I love him?_

Griffith smiled quietly at the countess, nodding in agreement with her assessment of the morning's aesthetic values as he raised the cup of tea to his lips.

***

"I do not have friends, only followers. A friend would have to be my equal."

What a dilemma. An equal is a threat and therefore an enemy; and an unequal can not be a friend. And this is what he is? This is what he respects? To be extracted from people and life and all breathing things besides your own body in order to follow a dream?

Is this the solitude of the great, or the idiocy of the proud? Anyone who pursues happiness must be slave to happiness, to its whims, and bend to its touch. Anyone who pursues contentment must forsake all but the simplest desires. But he clothes himself in the armour of a ridiculous desire - to be king, an earthly symbol of supremacy - until he cannot move, until the armour rusts around him. And this he calls 'dream', calls 'destiny', and thinks this makes him great.

***

_As long as I belong to him, we will never truly be together._

He could see it now. So many different kinds of connections between people... Each one subtly different. Their management demands subtlety that Griffith could maybe manage, but not Gattsu. And so he thought about it until he found the simplest answer, based logically on what was said. To be anything other than a follower to Griffith he would have to be his equal, and in order to be equal to Griffith he would have to follow a dream of his own.

He didn't have a dream. But at least he could stop following someone else's dream.

***

Gattsu did have a dream one night, sleeping in the barracks, away from his pale lover. Birds were nesting under the roof of a house of ice. The house was chilly to the touch like death, and he could hear people moving inside, their voices like screeching owls. The bird's nest shone like a spot of fire next to the ice, the heat of life against the cold of death. He could hear the tittering of demanding chicks, and the parent birds fluttered to and from the nest to feed their never-satisfied growing beaks... Suddenly he realized that the outcropping that the nest was built on was melting. A horror and sadness filled him, and he felt like a child, that his world should end should the nest fall. He woke up in tears and fear.

***

Griffith had a dream as well, on another night. He was walking through a landscape of fire, only it did not burn him, it did not destroy, simply wrapped everything in a warm pulsating sensation, like a veil of pleasure. The world was closed, he knew it had limits, and yet it was everything and all and there was nothing more he could ever want. He wasn't alone. There were voices resounding in the mysterious space, and presences, faceless wraiths that brushed by him and whispered him their love, needlessly, for he knew they loved him, and he loved them back. A larger, stronger presence suddenly arose behind him, and he turned, glowing with love and trust, to face the entities' queen. He did not recognize her face, or her cascade of dark hair, but she was huge, and she leaned down over him, and her face shone with a warm loving sadness. She smiled, and even though she didn't speak, her mood flowed into him. As he realized the cause of her sorrow, it became his own.

This could not last.

He woke up slowly, drifting into consciousness, wrapped in the sense of approaching bereavement.

***

Days later, it arrived.

The snow was cold under his knees, it pierced the soft fabric of his trousers. The whiteness had invaded his mind, his head felt light, filled with cold obscuring light. Breathing hurt. It game in short gasps.

He disciplined himself, and breathed in deep. With it, the light receded, the world returned, and so did self-consciousness.

In front of his men. Defeated and struck down in front of his men. But that didn't matter. The only thing he could think of, even now, the only thing that mattered and that constricted his chest with pain, was that he has left me.

Griffith got up slowly.

***

The rain battered him lightly even as he pressed into the window arch. All day, he had been trying to drive out the feeling, that awful unbearable feeling, and even now it remained. It remained, but he had decided what to do about it.

He was worried about losing a dream that was always secondary to him, that was all. He was greedy to expect to get it all, he told himself. He would have had to sever this connection eventually anyway. His course was clear and planned, after all. All his pieces were in place. Why look for an embrace that not only is secondary, is harmful even, and now doesn't even want to be sought? Let it be, let it be, he told his restlessness, his welling black ocean of emotion. Tonight I shall let you embrace your future.

The princess let him in, of course. Griffith was not sure if he should congratulate himself for that; Charlotte might have let in anyone she trusted, and she trusted just about anybody. But he did know that most people could not have so persuaded her to abandon her clothes, then her virtue, her whole self, to the promise of sexual pleasure. As he soothed her, kissed her, and pierced her, he wondered briefly whether even that was any kind of a victory. Her eyes are so empty.

He felt filthy, filthy to the core, and he gritted his teeth and pushed in again and she sighed in bliss and surrender and he murmured to her that he loved her, he loved her, and sank into the simple pure sensuality of this union.

***

He sat on the side of the bed, and thought of the cold, longed for the cold, but the room remained warm. The heat of Charlotte's sated body shone behind him. The memory pierced him, the memory of the turned back, and he crumpled onto himself, nails drawing blood from senseless arms.

_Filthy. Filthy. Filthy. Filthy. Filthy. Filthy. Filthy._

And the orb, warm, living, opened its eyes and drank deep in his fall.


End file.
